


Work is Work

by gyruum



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-23
Updated: 2006-10-23
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:04:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gyruum/pseuds/gyruum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laura doesn't smile during sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Work is Work

Laura doesn't smile during sex.

She fraks like it's her job. Her profession, her area of expertise. Governing the Colonial fleet may be her duty, but commanding the passion of women is her craft. She made a career of it, much as any prominent political figure can. She lays Tory out on the mahogany desk with her other important work, giving the task at hand her full focus and consideration, wondering if every artist feels their canvas stare back so intensely.

Laura doesn't smile during sex because never before has she taken her charge so seriously. She works Tory's body like the fate of humanity rests upon her every move and decision. Like the Cylons will find them if she slows down, and life will simply cease to exist if she breaks too soon.

She fraks like she is the Chosen One, like the system will collapse if anyone else were to take her place. Digging her nails deeper into olive skin, Laura can only imagine to what lengths she would go, how many laws she would break to retain her position. She drags Tory's nipple between her thumb and finger, pinching harder each time. She won't let it get that far.

Laura doesn't smile during sex, but she never has any complaints. No one can keep her eyes open long enough to notice. Laura steadies her pace to ensure Tory isn't the first.

She fraks like she is the President. Calm and confident, dignified and strong. With three long fingers, she drives her campaign message into the bodies of those who please her. She wonders if this is what reelection will take and silently divides the running tally in half just for amusement. After all, securing the win isn't Laura's job--it's Tory's. Laura's job is to make Tory understand just how badly she desires it.

Laura doesn't smile during sex because she remembers the sacrifice that brought them together. Billy had always felt more like family than someone under her hand, and Laura vowed not to become attached again. The war didn't allow it, so neither would she. She remembers meeting Tory during the painful interview process, wearing the same blue suit that now lay strewn across a chair by the window. She remembers how surprised she was to find such self-assurance without arrogance, such high credentials without pretension. A collected composure hiding the desperate need to please. Laura had found herself contemplating what abilities she could offer the applicant more than the reverse. Their interview involved less speaking than the rest. Laura remembers the lasting impression Tory made on her neck and returns the favor.

She fraks like she refuses to fail again, like loosening her grip would mean letting go and Tory is the only one who matters anymore. She weaves her fingers into Tory's hair and clenches as she thrusts, watching Tory's body tighten and rise, back arched, knuckles white gripping the edge of the desk. She keeps Tory close, to herself and the breaking point. Laura is nothing if not a teacher, and this is a lesson of possession, of belonging and control. Her advisors know to give them the room when asked, and Tory knows when Laura has left her glasses on, she is to get on her knees. Laura often reviews documents this way, one hand jotting notes in margins, the other pushing Tory's hungry mouth harder against her. It seems the best way to keep a new assistant from getting murdered in a restaurant.

Laura doesn't smile during sex, but her mouth waters at the sight of flesh for her taking, slender nape and quivering thighs, the angled curve of Tory's hips. She imagines making Tory come every thirty-three minutes for five straight days. She envisions the dull ache in her forearm, fingers pruned from incessant wetness, stomach sore from clutched breathing, mind spinning with exhaustion. It's intoxicating. Reaching deeper still, she pulls a flooding release and catches Tory's moan with a kiss.

She casually searches a drawer for a watch as Tory dresses. "Clear my schedule for the rest of the afternoon."

"Shouldn't be a problem. I can reschedule your meeting with the Quorum for tomorrow."

"No, postpone it indefinitely." Turning the dial several times with a click, she says, "I need you to come back in twenty-eight minutes." Without taking her eyes off Tory, she puts on her glasses.

"Yes, sir."


End file.
